


How Is This Place Just Standing

by sanmyshuno



Series: Wideboys 99 Flake Remix [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (They're both adults. Ren is in his 20s and Hux is in his 30s)., Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Armitage Hux Has Issues, Bottom Armitage Hux, Dirty Talk, Dom Armitage Hux, Dom/sub, Fantasies About Feminisation, Hair-pulling, How Do I Tag, Humiliation, I Don't Even Know, I think that's it - Freeform, Kylo Is Called Both Ren and Ben, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Light Dom/sub, Light objectification, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Bottom Armitage Hux, Praise Kink, Size Difference, Size Kink, Top Kylo Ren, Topping from the Bottom, Touch-Starved, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, alternative universe, sub kylo ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22735981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanmyshuno/pseuds/sanmyshuno
Summary: "Some could call that codependency," Hux says.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo, Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Series: Wideboys 99 Flake Remix [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634800
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88





	How Is This Place Just Standing

**Author's Note:**

> (In which Hux abuses his body too much for someone who claims to be fancy and he also likes musicals).
> 
> Title from Mika's "Ice Cream". 
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

> **How Is This Place Just Standing**

Hux is hardly what you would call a fickle man. He’s a man of routine, of expense, and of complexity. He went to the same doctor until he died when Hux was twenty-five and, since then, had seen that doctor’s son. All his suits are handmade from the same shop for as long as he can remember. There’s always a pack of Davidoff classics in his desk drawer, which he helps himself to once a month. On the top shelf of his closet, there’s a wooden box of cigars which he plans to open when he finally takes complete control of his father’s company. All his wine is imported and aged beautifully. His cat eats foods finer than most people probably would feed themselves.

Hux is a man of himself — luxurious and selfish. He isn’t friendly, in anyone’s eyes, but who needs  _ friends  _ and  _ relationships  _ when they drain you of absolutely everything you have — time and money and patience — and distract you from what’s most important: success. And, no, he’s never once thought to change.

The list of people Hux trusts is incredibly short — it starts with Millicent, who loves him unconditionally and not just because he provides her with food (despite what his father may believe), and ends with Phasma, whose possession of power, control and sadism makes her either a possible threat or an admiral second-in-command when that day comes. Somewhere in the middle is his mostly estranged mother who, while he cares for deeply, knows she couldn’t possibly understand him, and his hairdresser who knows enough of his secrets to blackmail him out of millions if they wanted to.

Millicent is curling around his legs, content with a belly full of chicken. Hux stands at the kitchen counter, watching in a daze, teaspoon in hand, as the tea in his blue marbled mug swirls around like a miniature tornado.

He’s tired —  _ exhausted _ . Both physically and mentally worked to the bone and he feels frustrated, knowing that he needs to get some sleep before work tomorrow morning but, no matter how many cups of chamomile tea he drinks, nothing can settle the restlessness in his mind long enough. He’s used to pulling all-nighters, holed up in his office long enough to see the sunrise the next morning, tired eyes weary and unfocused from staring at the mingling words in front of him. 

But this is  _ different _ . 

The tea has settled and the bag sits drowned in the bottom of the mug, string hanging over the edge. Millicent throws herself down to roll around on her back at Hux’s feet, begging for belly rubs. He complies, bending down and scratching softly at her tummy. Grabby his tea, Hux pads over in socked feet to the lounge room, a movie’s selection screen waiting for him to hit play. He sits back, crossed-leg — with Millicent welcoming herself to his lap — and plays the movie, warm mug resting calmingly in his palms. 

He ignores his phone when it lights up with an E-mail from  _ Brendol Hux  _ in favour of explaining his theory to Millicent about how Don Lockwood is probably a cuck.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning — mouth dry and cottony, the feeling of an impending headache throbbing in his skull. The familiar and comforting weight of Millicent resting on his feet makes him feel guilty knowing he has to disturb her in a moment, the alarm clock on his bedside table reading  _ 5:57 _ .

But he does, blue-grey light streaming through his curtains making it too hard to roll over for a few more minutes even if he wanted to. Hux drags himself and his embarrassing bed hair to the bathroom to make himself feel a little less disgusting with a shower, the bottoms of his silk pyjama pants dragging across the carpet. Face shaved, hair neatened and dressed in monochromatic blue, he feds a begrudgingly awake Millicent while sipping on a mug of sugarless black tea, swallowing down a couple of painkillers with it in hopes it will help fight off his headache.

With a soft kiss to the forehead of a lounging Millicent, Hux is out the door and already wishing he could go back inside.

For an apartment he spends the price of a small car on, he runs into the issue of not having a working elevator more than he would expect; it makes him feel like he’s living in some poor man’s apartment complex, which would make his blood boil in anger if he had any anger left to boil. Instead, Hux takes the emergency steps two at a time, awkwardly trying to stop the laptop bag slung over his shoulder from bumping painfully against his thigh.

There’s a slight build-up on the drive to work. The breakfast radio conversation about swingers clubs makes the time stuck a little more bearable than it would be otherwise. Tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, Hux waits for the traffic lights to change, scoffing at the way the host wrongly explains the concept of polyamory.

(And some people wonder why non-conventional relationships sometimes aren’t as functional and healthy as they should be).

Eventually, both the topic and the light changes, and some mediocre-at-best pop song goes in one ear and out the other when he finally sees the grey-and-glass high-rise of his building come into view. He eyes his office, blinds draw tightly but still undoubtedly his — so close to the very top, only a floor under his father’s. 

Hux isn’t sure if it fills him with a sense of pride or frustration. 

Pulling his car into the personalised car space,  _ A. Hux  _ engraved into the wheel stop, Hux hops out. Grabbing the leather laptop bag from the passenger seat and straightening his blazer, he takes a breath — in and out, twice, already feeling some of the tense release from his shoulders — before taking the elevator up to his floor. 

Phasma is sitting at her desk just outside the double-doors to Hux’s office. Her official title is Hux’s secretary but it’s bullshit and everyone knows it. Everything Brendol had worked so hard to build up could come crashing down the moment Phasma walks out the door. If it didn’t also leave Hux with nothing, he would love to see it happen.

A folder of papers and a mug of tea is sitting on Phasma’s desk. He thanks her for both, combing through the folder while Phasma walks him through the itinerary for the day and catching him up with the seven phone calls he has to return. Tea and folder in hand, he backs himself through the heavy doors and into the impersonal sanctuary of his dark wood office.

He sits himself down in his very ergonomic — if not slightly uncomfortable — desk chair, surveying the familiar sight of files and stationery and framed Millicent photo, sitting there proudly for everyone to see the same way some put pictures of their partners or children on their own desks. Turning off his personal mobile and switching on his work one, Hux squares his shoulders, readying himself for the day. 

* * *

Hours pass. There’s Emails and phone calls and rescheduling of meetings because Brendol just  _ had  _ to skip out for a  _ champagne brunch _ with a  _ lovely  _ Miss Mara Jade for  _ crucial business matters _ . Hux may not be a man of pure heart or of pure intent, much like his father, but mixing work and pleasure has never appealed to him the way it does Brendol.

Catching sight of the time at the bottom of his computer screen, 12:06 pm , stares him down and he sighs. Forcing himself away from his desk, Hux shoves everything he needs into his laptop bag. He used to take lunch in his office, shoving importing paperwork out of the way, but since taking on Phasma, she’s made it her mission to ensure he’s well away from work during lunch break. Not an awful habit, he’d admit, but it’s certainly a hindrance.

Phasma is still at her desk when he emerges, head down and typing away at the keyboard. She barely raises her eyes to look up at Hux when he walks by, but definitely has a look of satisfaction on her face; probably because she didn’t have to remind Hux to get a move on.

There’s a little  café near his building. It’s quiet and filled with second-hand knick-knacks and antique furnishings. Between the dim lighting from the hanging bare bulbs and scuffed wooden flooring, it’s miles away from Hux’s preferred aesthetic, but their offerings are delicious and he usually only has to share the space with a group of pensioners who stop by for coffee after their walking group. And, somehow, the intense smell of coffee beans cutting through the otherwise awful scent of old, dusty stuff is pleasant, even when Hux’s preferred smell is medical grade sanitiser. 

He orders a large mug of  _ Really Russian Caravan  _ and a salmon salad. The bright-eyed and full-figured young woman behind the counter promises him his lunch will be out shortly, red-painted lips parting in a small to show an adorable gap in her teeth large enough to slide his credit card between. If he had any interest in women, he would’ve slipped his phone number in with the tip he drops into the decorated mason jar.

Sitting himself in his usual spot underneath a large tin sign promoting Sinclair Dino gasoline, Hux pulls out his laptop to get some more work done. His meal is delivered by the same woman who served him and he throws her a polite, if only a little harmlessly flirtatious, smile along with his thanks. 

Distracted by smoky tea and smoky salmon and financial reports, Hux isn’t paying around to anything around him, the dinging of the little bell above the door fading into the background, along with elderly women gossiping about the fallout between Margaret and Idy at cross-stitch club because, even in their elder years, women still like to bitch like high school girls. He doesn’t notice that someone’s in front of him until they’ve said his name, an unsure “Hux?” dragging him away from numbers and dollar signs.

Standing before him, the literal giant hunched and cowering like a kicked dog, was Ben.  _ Ren _ . The large takeaway cup looks comically dwarfed in his hand. “What do you want?” Hux asks over the lid of his laptop, “why are you here?”

Ren takes it upon himself to welcome himself to the table, running a finger along the edge of a veiled WWI helmet that sits on a rickety shelf beside them. Hux hadn’t seen it before, unsure if it’s because it’s new or if he’s just never noticed it. “I like old stuff,” he says, “especially war stuff. I got a bunch of my grandfather’s things”.

“Uh-huh,” Hux says without really even listening, fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

“Yeah,” Ren continues as if Hux gave him any indication that he cared. Or maybe Ren knows how uninterested he is but keeps talking anyway, “a helmet and a gas mask. I have a few weapons, too. Guns and swords and a bayonet. I even have the canister to a bomb. Mum had wanted to get rid of everything. Some shit about it making her uncomfortable”. A second passes between them and, when he speaks again, Hux can hear the pout in his voice, “you’re not listening to me”.

“No, I’m not,” Hux replies, index finger pressing the down button to scroll through a PDF while he sips his tea.

“So you  _ are  _ listening?” Ren asks.

“I’m not,” Hux repeats, “I don’t want to hear about your war memorabilia”.

“I thought you’d like that sort of thing,” Ren says, sounding genuinely put down.

Hux raises an eyebrow, “why would you say that?”

“Because you’re… because you’re  _ you _ ,” Ren says as if it explains anything. 

Hux’s fingers fly across the keyboard, “I’m me?” he questions.

“Yeah, you’re…” Ren takes a moment to think about his next words, “you’re not very nice,” he finally settles on carefully.

“No, you’re right,” Hux agrees, “I’m not very nice. But there’s a difference between being  _ callous  _ and being  _ inhumane _ ”.

“War can be good,” Ren mutters, then quieter under his breath Hux swears he hears, “sometimes”.

“Oh my—” Hux pauses, refraining from combing his fingers through his hair, a habit of frustration that more often than not ruins his meticulously styled hair so he tries to keep it to a minimum, “I  _ can’t believe  _ I’m having to defend my anti-war stance right now. Just—be  _ quiet _ ”. 

And, much to Hux’s surprise, Ren does shut up. His body going lax, chin down to his chest and fingers wrapped loosely bumpy cardboard of his coffee cup. They sit in relative silence together for a moment. The old ladies from the walking group finish and leave, two mothers pushing strollers come in, one of them complaining how useless her husband is. The bubbly girl from the counter hands Ren a brown paper bag, black marker scrawled a short-hand sandwich order alongside  _ Kylo  _ — because he’s  _ still  _ pulling that nonsense — who smiles in thanks but doesn’t say anything. 

Another few moments pass and Hux has pushed his mostly finished salad off to the side. “You look like shit,” he says, barely looking up from the screen. And it’s not a lie either; the dark circles underneath Ren’s eyes making him look unbelievably hollow, dark moles and hair even more prominent against pale skin. 

“Thanks,” Ren mutters in a way that probably was supposed to sound rude but come off more as defeated.

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” Hux says.

“You said I looked like shit,” Ren defends, flustered, “which is  _ your  _ fault”.

Hux presses the period key and cocks an eyebrow, “ _ my  _ fault?”

“You’ve been ignoring me,” Ren says, sounding like a miserable child.

“I haven’t been ignoring you, Ben,” there’s clench in Ren’s jaw, “I’ve blocked your number”.

“What? Why?” he sounds kind of angry but there’s a defeated edge to it that cuts the bite slightly.

Hux types out an Email and hits send — yes, he would absolutely love to meet up with Mr Krennic to discuss trades. “We had  _ one  _ night together, that’s all it was,” Hux says.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Ren says, clearly upset about it.

“Oh Ben,” Hux says, a slight coo colouring his words, “you didn’t  _ catch feelings _ , did you?” the concerned undertones completely went with the question, leaving behind his regular high-and-mighty mocking.

Ren squeezes his takeaway coffee cup a little too tightly, weak cardboard bending underneath his huge hands and the plastic lid popping off, some of the coffee spilling over the edge to pool at the base, no doubt adding to the many rings of caffeine stained into the wood of the table. If the coffee was hot enough to burn, Ren didn’t show it. “No, I didn’t…” he says, weakly, “I just…”

Hux isn’t doing anything purposeful on his laptop anymore, but he’s not giving Ren his full attention anyway, “Just  _ what _ ?”

Ren stares down at his hands, “I—,” he says, defeated, “I don’t know”.

“No, of course you don’t know,” Hux says. 

“What does that mean?” Ren asks, eyes narrowing slightly. It almost looks a bit like if he squints his eyes anymore they’re just going to close on him from exhaustion.

“Nothing you need to worry yourself about,” Hux says, downing the last dregs of tea and packing away his belongings back into the laptop bag, “I didn’t sleep with you for your brains. Or your feelings”. 

“Then why did you?” Ren asks.

“I don’t think you need to ask,” Hux says.

Ren fidgets in his seat, “yeah,” he says, weakly. Hux stands up and shoulders his bag, the hefty weight of it not the only thing weighing his shoulder down. He stares down at the crown of Ren’s head, wishing to have him stare up at him again but Hux refrains himself from making the request. Instead, he stands there for an awkward second longer than he probably should, noting the slightly brown roots of Ren’s hair as if he dyes what may be dark brunette hair black. “You know,” Ren says to his coffee, “I think you’re still hung up on me, too”.

Hux blinks once, adjusting the strap across his shoulder for no reason. A beat passes and the scraping of utensils against plates is much too loud. “Bye, Ben,” Hux eventually settles on before turning his back and walking out the door, the chime of the bell above him sound deafening in his ears.

He walks back to his office building in autopilot mode, barely remembering the minutes between leaving the  café and arriving back at the high-rise. Phasma is at her desk, still, when he arrives back, but her full coffee tumbler suggests she went somewhere at some point. Her hand sticks up when he walks past, lined paper with Phasma’s hurried handwriting gripped loosely in her hand, and he takes it without a word.

For the rest of the afternoon, he works well, if only a little distracted. He spends an hour and a half on the phone with a woman named Rae Sloane, who wanted to speak with someone  _ more competent than that pig-headed Brendol Hux _ , which she did — speaking  _ at  _ Hux in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time. It’s both a delight and a waste of time. Phasma pokes her head in at one point to say her goodbyes while Hux debates taking his branch expansions ideas to his father. He promises her he wouldn’t be there too long but, by the time he feels like he’s accomplished enough to leave, it’s toeing 10 PM and he hasn’t eaten since lunch.

Milicent is sitting expectantly by the front door when he arrives home, letting out a cheerful  _ mrrow  _ when she sees him. Hux crouches down in front of her to scratch her behind the ear, a sense of comfort washing over him when she rubs her head against his bent knee. 

His lavender chocolate is on the bench and he unwraps it and pops it in his mouth on the way to the bedroom, ready to dress in his pyjamas before eating — a can of tomato soup heated atop the stove. The news on TV is boring, the food is passable and Millicent is the only company he needs for the rest of the night, alongside the glass of wine that’s much too fancy for his throw away dinner. Once he feels significantly exhausted by hearing about sports doping, Hux drags himself to bed, Millicent trotting alongside him.

Pulling back the fresh duvet and sheets to air them out, Hux brushes his teeth and stares at himself for far too long in the mirror. The dark shadows of his face from the downlights in his bathroom making the sharp angles of his face looking harsher than they usually are. Breaking his gaze away from his sunken eyes, Hux rubs his anti-aging cream into his skin and turns the night off. 

Millicent is already curled up in the bed and he joins her, tucking himself in underneath the layers. His personal phone is sitting on the bedside table and he doesn’t entirely remember how it got there. Thumbing the unlock button, he’s almost blinded by the bright artificial light. He needs to plug in the charger but he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he finds himself scrolling through his blocked contacts before locating Ren’s and unchecking it. He stares at  _ Ben Solo _ , sandwiched between  _ Brendol Hux  _ and the name of his dry cleaner. 

_ I think you’re still hung up on me, too _ .

Hux doesn’t sleep well that night.

* * *

His costume for the next day is black —  _ to mourn my lack of sleep _ , he jokes to Millicent as she sits on the bed, licking between her toe beans. Hux, again, downs some painkillers with his morning tea before bounding down the stairs to his car.

The traffic is lighter this time, but the radio hosts still talk nonsense and what sounds like the same mediocre pop song plays again. Dark clouds hang above the high-rise and Hux is sure that it’s going to bucket down later in the day. 

He parks his car and shoulders his laptop bag. Two breaths, in and out, and he’s walking with a purpose that he doesn’t truly have towards the elevator. It stops once on the way up, a face he sort of recognises as Dopheld hops on and tries very hard not to stare while very much staring. He’s off on the next floor, leaving Hux to stare at himself in silence for the rest of the dangerous ride up.

Phasma talks and he listens, looking at the words in front of him without really reading them. Eventually, once he’s inside his office, Hux wonders what it would feel like to scream and punch a fist through his computer screen.

He doesn’t, though, and instead picks up his work phone, dialling the number for Brendol’s secretary to say that he had, in fact, managed to strike a deal with  Sloane and, no, he was only called a bastard  _ twice _ . 

The rest of the morning would have been uneventful if his eyes didn’t flicker over to his turned off personal phone, debating the pros and cons of switching it on. Eventually, he narrows it down to  _ pros: Ben could call  _ and  _ cons: Ben could call _ . By the time lunchtime does roll around, it is raining. Not as rough as Hux thought it would be, but hard enough that he decides he’s allowed to stay in the relative safety of his office. He Uber Eats some Italian from the place that always throws in a free demi of wine with every order he places and, twenty-six minutes later, a frightened-looking intern gets buzzed into his office to place his order on his desk before scurrying away.

Hux stands, opening the window to let the smell of rain slowly drift into the room, mindful to be sure it’s not going to come into his office and soak into the carpeting. He quickly lets Phasma know that he’s taking lunch in his office for the day, and takes his food and personal phone to the small seating area across the way that rarely gets used.

Using one hand to pull out his meal and the other to tap in his passcode, Hux curses himself, knowing he has nothing clean to drink his wine from. Instead of making the trek to find a mug or a glass, he just cracks the seal and decides to drink it from the bottle. The little plastic utensils aren’t great but it’s better than picking gnocchi from the creamy sauce with his fingers. 

While debating if the painting hanging on the wall across him is crooked, he’s startled by the sudden vibrating of his phone against the wooden coffee table.  _ Ben Solo _ . Hux fakes hesitancy for a couple of rings before accepting the call, immediately putting Ren on speakerphone, for better or for worse. “Ben,” he says, as a greeting.

“Ren,” he gets as a reply.

“You’ve called me,” Hux says. 

“You unblocked me,” Ren replies.

Hux chews a little before swallowing, “you have a habit of calling numbers that block you?” 

“If it’s yours, yeah,” Ren admits like it’s not the most embarrassing and pathetic thing Hux has heard in months. The way he says it sounds like he doesn’t even see the problem. Hux feels.

“Some could call that codependency,” Hux says.

“Maybe,” Ren muses, “what would that make you?”

Hux snorts, “a kind person dealing with a charity case?”

“You’re not kind,” Ren says and Hux is surprised he doesn’t try and fight back against the  _ charity case  _ comment. 

“I’m not,” Hux agrees, shades of their last conversation, “and you enjoy it”.

“I do. You should do something about it,” Ren suggests.

“Like what?” Hux asks, taking a sip of his drink.

“Talk to me?” Ren asks after a breath.

“I’m at work, Ben,” Hux says with faux sternness. He spears another gnocchi with the brittle fork, surprised it doesn’t break under the pressure. 

Ren’s breath hitches on the other side of the phone, “so?” he asks.

“I’m at work, Ben,” Hux says again, stressing each word, “I don’t know if you know anything about having a  _ proper  _ job, but there’s a certain level of decency that that comes with being in a professional environment”.

“So?” Ren says again.

“I’m not dirty talking you at work,” Hux says with finality.

A loud groan comes through the line and it sounds annoyed, like Ren was expecting Hux to humiliate him under the banner of his father’s name. “You suck,” Ren draws out. In the background, it sounds like Ren drops himself down on something like a bed or a couch. “What are you doing?” he asks and Hux can imagine Ren laying on his stomach, twirling his hair around a finger like a gossiping schoolgirl and he subdues a laugh.

“I’m having lunch,” Hux says, just to amuse Ren.

“In your office?” Ren asks.

“In my office,” Hux confirms.

“I thought so,” Ren muses, “I didn’t see you at our place”.  _ Our place _ — if Hux was in the same room as Ren he would consider slapping him across the face but would decide to briskly leave the room instead.

“We saw each other there once,” Hux says instead of saying nothing.

“And it was nice,” Ren says, “we should go again”.

“We shouldn’t,” Hux decides.

Ren clicks his tongue, “it’ll be like a date or something,” he says, clearly pleased with himself about the idea.

“Absolutely not,” Hux says, voice stern.

There’s some vague sound of shifting on Ren’s end of the line before he asks, “why not?” with that childish pout once again because  _ of course he is _ . He’s a needy, selfish brat who’s never been told  _ no  _ in his life.

Hux finishes the rest of his lunch and packs it all back up into the plastic bag it all came in, ready to be thrown out when he gets a second. He leaves the rest of the demi out to sip on still. “I don’t date,” Hux says, sounding an odd mix between offhandedly and serious. When he first said he doesn’t date it was said dead serious but, at this point, he says it more like a scripted response more than something he actually believes in. 

“Why not?” Ren asks.

“I don’t have the time,” he replies, scripted, but then he asks, mostly just to deflect, even if it does come out as a little too interested in Ren’s life, “do you?” 

“Well… no,” Ren says, stumbling over his words, “but I would like to”.

Hux snorts, crossing his legs and leaning back in his seat, “how shocking,” he says, taking a small sip of his wine, “no one wants to date the  _ great and strapping  _ young Solo”.

“Don’t call me that,” Ren says, filled with heat from out of nowhere, “ _ I  _ don’t need to hide behind my family’s name”. 

It was a shallow dig but Hux, ever the antagonist, took the bait regardless, “what is it that you do then, exactly?” Ren says something in reply but he doesn’t quite catch it, forced out of his little bubble of conversation by the office landline on his desk ringing suddenly. “I hate to interrupt,” Hux says, making it entirely obvious he doesn’t hate it at all, “but I must get back to work”.

“Oh,” Ren says, disappointment evident in his voice, “call me later?” 

“I will not,” Hux says and hangs up the phone.

Hux manages to reach the phone on his desk before it rings out. He finishes the demi of wine while Brendol goes on a tirade about how  _ rude  _ and  _ unprofessional  _ it is when people reschedule meetings.

* * *

It was six-thirty on a Friday and he should be home — reading a book with Millicent on his lap and a glass of red sitting beside a woodsy scented candle. Instead, he’s standing almost comically overdressed in a burgundy plaid suit waiting for his script to be filled because, somehow, he forgot to do it sooner.

A mother and a screaming toddler with a runny nose are giving him a headache, some guy fidgeting enough to look like he’s either  _ on  _ something or is coming  _ off  _ something, and an overworked woman still dressed in her nurse’s scrubs are sitting around, too. Or, in the case of the fidgeting man, pacing. On the other side of the pharmacist, he can see four teenage girls still in their school uniforms trying really hard not to look suspicious while they shove highlighter palettes and lipsticks into each other backpacks.

He shouldn’t be here, he should be at work. The only thing keeping him here when he feels tempted to go the night without medication is that he’s still able to send Emails back and forth on his phone, which made him feel slightly less useless.

Some nice, if only a little scuffed, sneakers come into his downcast field of view. Against all his desires, he looks up. He really should’ve gone the night without medicating. Drawing his eyes up the expanse of dark pants, eventually he settles on a face he has been far too much of. He rubs his face and thumbs off his phone. “Hey,” Ren says, too chipper for the situation.

“What are you doing here?” Hux asks, “certainly this can’t be a coincidence”.

Ren welcomes himself to the hard plastic chair beside Hux, “completely a coincidence,” he reassures, “came in for something else and saw you. Thought I’d say  _ hey _ ”. 

“You didn’t have to,” Hux says.

“I did,” Ren says, appearing to leave no room for an argument, “What are you here for?”

Hux makes a sharp, stiff gesture to the drugs counter, “take a guess”.

“Oh…” Ren says with sudden realisation. He waves around a black and white box, stylised text showing it was liquid eyeliner —  _ NYX EPIC INK LINER  _ — and the liner in the box rattles around inside, size of the packaging probably too big for the product inside. “I wanted this”.

“Makeup,” Hux says, a question said more like a statement.

“Yeah,” Ren says.

“For you?” this time, he says it like a question.

“Yeah,” Ren repeats.

_ Oh _ . Hux has never slept with a man who's worn makeup before, but he’s seen enough softcore porn of pretty twinks with smeared eye makeup and smudged lipstick to know that it’s hot when they’re all messed up and teary. Ren isn’t anywhere close to those skinny little things with their babyfaces, but maybe a little bit of makeup will fix —  _ something _ . He could see Ren’s wide, soft-looking mouth painted a nice deep red. “Right. Of course,” Hux eventually says a moment too late and it definitely sounds like he was lost in dirty thoughts.

Before Ren can call him out on his obvious blunder in his personal presentation, a woman behind the counter calls his name. Laptop bag slung over his shoulder and phone shoved into one of the outer pockets, Hux goes up to the counter. Despite the fact that he’s gotten his script filled by her before, he lets her do her job in explaining Prozac to him while he stares at the pretty pattern of her hijab. Eventually, he thanks her and takes the little blue tray and his repeat scripts off her. Ren almost trips over his feet and the frantically pacing man on his way to try and fall into step with Hux.

The girls who were stealing makeup were up at the counter when they got there, a handful of products between them, giggling quietly to themselves. Their items are rung up and they escape through the sensored doors without them going off. He pulls out his Bellroy slim sleeve wallet and pays with cash, receipt folded neatly in the paper bag with his meds. At the register beside him, Ren pulls a couple of crumpled notes from his back pocket, shoving his change and receipt into the same pocket, the tip of a five-dollar bill sticking out.

They both stand in the carpark a little awkwardly, Hux twirling his keys not-so-subtly around a finger. “I need to go home,” he says, staring past Ren’s head to instead look at the blackboard specials of the butchers across the way. A wayward thought about how he hasn’t had kidney in a while crosses his mind. 

“You should,” Ren agrees, tearing holes in the paper bag.

“You should, too,” Hux says.

Ren cocks his head in a way that would be cute if anyone were to do it, “yours or mine?” he asks, clearly aiming for joking.

Hux has already unlocked his car door and was making his way towards the back seat to put his stuff in the back. “Sure,” he replies. Sliding himself into the driver’s seat, Hux turns the key in the ignition. It took a moment for Ren’s brain to register what Hux said, but the second he does, he almost sprains an ankle when he stumbles over the sidewalk ledge. He goes to hop in the passenger side and Hux shakes his head, poking to the backseat, “in the back, if you’d please”.

Ren does please, buckling himself eagerly, obviously not too put off by being banish the backseat like a child. Turning up the volume for the radio, Hux stops any possibility of small talk while still being put off by the easy listening songs on the radio.

* * *

Millicent jumps down off her cat tree when Hux opens the door, throwing herself down on the ground for belly-rubs, which Hux gives out happily. Ren gives her a polite but affectionate pat on the head. Something feels funny inside of Hux’s stomach and he decides the best thing to do is mix his Prozac with wine.

Hux put his bag where it belongs and chucks the chemist bag on the kitchen countertop. Absentmindedly, he unwraps and bites into his chocolate while making his way through the kitchen to grab a bottle and glass. “Prozac?” he hears Ren say from behind him.

Turning, Hux sees Ren tapping his index finger against the medication packaging, “mind your manners, Ben. Weren’t you ever taught not to snoop through other people’s belongings?” 

Ren quickly snatches his hands back, shoving them inside his pockets instead, “sorry,” he mumbles to the tiles. Ren raises his eyes when he hears Hux uncork the wine bottle, “you shouldn’t drink while on Prozac, y’know”.

Pouring a moderate measure of wine, Hux takes a bigger sip than he probably should, “I’m aware,” he says over the top of his glass.

“You really shouldn’t,” Ren repeats, frowning when he sees Hux pop a pill, swallowing it down with some wine, “are you okay?” he asks, disgustingly worried.

“No, I’m not,” Hux replies, way too defensively.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No Ben, I don’t,” Hux says with much less heat, but still frustrated.

Ren sits himself at the breakfast bar, dragging the metal fruit bowl over to him to play with one of the lemons inside. He fiddles with the stem while he watches Hux feed Millicent and finish the glass, silently thankful that he only has the one. He's slightly less thankful when he sees Hux throw a handful of nuts into his mouth like it's an appropriate dinner but still says nothing. 

Once Millicent is full and purring, Hux sends her back to the cat tree, beckoning Ren to follow behind him with a crook of a finger, who does follow, large thumping feet making up for the lack of noise in the apartment otherwise. Leading the two of them to the bedroom, Hux opens the door, closing it behind Ren with a gentle  _ click  _ before going back to ignoring him _.  _

Ren's eyes search the room, landing the framed poster of  _ Chicago: A Musical Vaudeville  _ on the wall, bemused. “I didn’t know you liked musicals,” he says.

Hux doesn’t look up from where he’s taking his watch off at the dresser. “It’s a guilty pleasure,” he replies, nothing about his tone or body language suggesting he feels guilty about it, “besides,” he continues, undoing his cuffs, “why  _ would  _ you know?”

Ren hums noncommittally, “I guess,” he says, turning back around the face Hux. He pauses for a moment before speaking again, “I don’t understand why people get guilty over things they like”.

Cufflinks and watch placed in their appropriate boxes, Hux snorts, “no, you wouldn’t”.

Ren’s eyes do a silly thing where it doesn't look like they know if they should be wide in confusion or narrow in anger, “what does that mean?” he asks.

“What it means, Ben,” Hux says, pacing over to where Ren stands, whose body is actually appearing as big as it is for once, “is that you’re an embarrassment. You’re rude, disgusting, and have  _ so little  _ self-worth that you actively seek someone like  _ me  _ out”.

"And what does that say about you?" Ren asks. 

Hux huffs out a laugh. Ren’s directly in front of him now and he can see how his chest is rising and falling beneath his shirt, deep and shallow breaths like either something is wrong or he never learnt how to breathe properly as a child. The bags beneath his eyes are depressingly dark and much more noticeable now they’re out of the harsh unnatural light of the chemist’s fluorescent bulbs, and his lips are so chapped Hux considers sending Ren home with a tube of Burt’s Bees and the demand to come back when they’re better. He doesn’t, though, but instead curls a finger around a belt loop of Ren’s jeans, “nothing good,” he replies, “but I think we both already knew that”.

“Yeah,” breathes out a reply, looking down at Hux’s hand. Even his nicely maintained nails look some sort of way compared to his rough-on-purpose jeans. 

Unhooking his finger from the belt loop, Hux drags his hands up, pushing Ren’s shirt up his torso, who raises his arms like a child. They both let the shirt — plain and solid coloured, yet recognisable as something that has a three-digit price tag — fall to the floor. Almost like he was using his half-assed faux-bad boy look like a shield and stripping him of his shirt also strips Ren of whatever false confidence he had, his shoulders just collapse.

He may be bigger than Hux, stronger and more powerful in  _ almost  _ every way. But he knows where he belongs when they’re together, he knows his place between the two of them. While he typically consists of hunched shoulders and a face curtained with unruly hair, there’s a special sort of shrinking he does when placed under Hux’s gaze. He’s a little rough around the edges where he thinks he can have a say, but there’s a natural submissiveness that Hux just wants to break down the walls and get to.

His shoes were left haphazardly beside the door when he first came in and his toes curl in his mismatched socks. “Everything else off,” he directs, “I’ll be back in a moment”. He hasn’t even turned completely away before Ren shoots out an arm, huge hand wrapping itself almost double around Hux’s wrist.

“Where are you going?” he asks, a sort of frantic he’s never sounded before when Hux has walked off on him.

Hux pries Ren’s fingers from his wrist, “I’m just going to the ensuite,” he says, calmly and carefully like you would to a frightened animal, “I’ll be back”.

This seems to please Ren enough to fully release his grip, but he doesn’t look entirely pleased, either. Regardless, Hux retreats into the bathroom, closing the door behind himself but doesn’t bother locking it, knowing that Ren should know better than to disobey and intrude. Hux doesn’t really want to do anything in here, but he just wants to leave Ren alone for a bit to see if he’d do what was asked of him without supervision. And, with a wicked curl in his stomach, he hopes something vulnerable will brew inside of him.

After wasting some time washing his face and brushing his teeth, Hux slides back into the room, pleasantly surprised to see Ren standing where he was left naked, but his clothes were even folded somewhat neatly on top of the dresser. Has this boy ever needed to fold his own clothes before in his life?

He stands right at the foot of the bed, “to me,” he says. Ren starts to walk over to him on fawn-like legs but Hux quickly snaps his fingers and points the ground, “crawling, please”. Heavy to his knees, Ren drops like lead. If the boards beneath the carpet aren’t even a little busted from that, Hux will be surprised. Crawling without the grace that Hux is used to seeing in both cat and human, Ren comes to a stop in front of him. Running a hand through Ren’s hair, Hux request, “undress me”.

Coming to a hesitant stand, Ren slides the suit jacket off Hux’s shoulders, draping it carefully across the end of the bed. Thick fingers struggle with the knot of Hux’s tie but manage to slip it through the collar and puts it with the coat. Hux is almost surprised that Ren was able to undo his tie, but watching him struggle with the tiny buttons of his black button-down is painful. His patience runs thin and with the last couple of buttons to go, Hux is batting Ren’s hands out the way to finish the job himself. The heart-stricken look on Ren’s face is pretty enough that he wants it painted and framed on his wall.

Going back down to his knees, Ren works on Hux’s belt, tugging it free and tossing it blindly to the bed. The closures on the pants are also rough for meaty fingers but he manages far better than the shirt, tugging them, along with Hux’s underwear, to the floor. Bracing himself against Ren’s shoulder, more so he can force his weight down onto Ren’s body more than needing help to maintain balance. Finally naked, he plants himself on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other. He picks up the pile of clothes and tosses them at Ren, laughing mostly to himself when everything hits him the face and drops sadly into his lap. The clothes do their best to hide Ren’s erection, but there’s still a slight tenting there. “The belt belongs in the wardrobe,” he instructs, pointing to the solid wood wardrobe, “and those,” he says, gesturing to the ensuite, “go in the hamper”.

Ren hurries to do what was asked, opting to throw the clothes in the hamper before hooking the belt back with its siblings on the belt rack. He folds himself less than gracefully back at Hux’s feet. “You missed me,” Hux says, somewhere between a statement and a question.

Ren nods, but something must’ve reminded him that he should speak, “I did”.

“Cute,” he says, sweet and mocking, “you’ve certainly given me a headache”.

“Sorry,” Ren says.

Patting Ren’s hair like Millicent’s fur, he says, “I don’t think you are. But that’s okay; I’m sure you can make it up to me”.

Ren’s eyes sparkle with joy or eagerness or something similar enough that Hux almost wants to not give in, just to see that sparkle get drained from him. “I can,” he agrees. 

Using the fist in Ren’s hair, Hux pulls him up the length of the bed, legs scrambling to get up him at the awkward angle. Bracing himself up on his elbows, Hux looks down at Ren kneeling between his legs, fist tightening against his thigh as he tries his best to not look at Hux’s hardening cock without making it look obvious.

Reaching into the single-drawer bedside table blindly, Hux pulls out a mostly full tube of lube. He tosses it to Ren, who fumbles with the catch but manages not to drop it. He looks at it, puppy dog confused face looking down at the label. “Surely I don’t need to tell you what to do,” he says.

Popping the cap, Ren shakes his head with a quiet “ _ no _ ”. Hux relaxes back against the grey duvet and spreads his legs and Ren settles further in between them. He squeezes out the lube, a messy blob of it missing his fingers and landing on Ren’s leg. He tries to scoop it up but it leaves an even bigger mess in the coarse hair of his legs. Seeming to not know where to look, he slowly pushes the first finger inside. The slide is easy and Hux sighs softly.

Absentmindedly, Hux reaches down and squeezes his cock, giving it a slow and half-hearted stroke. Eyes now drawn intensely to the sight of his thick finger sliding in and out of Hux’s hole, Ren licks his lips. For a man who has never seemed to commit to anything before in his life, he certainly was making a job out of finger-fucking Hux. 

“Another,” Hux says after not too long and Ren pushes another slick finger inside, staring in slack-mouthed awe as it sinks in. Hux hisses quietly at the stretching burn, head falling deeper into the plush pillows underneath his head. “That’s good, Ben,” he praises, “keep going”. With the added confidence, Ren settles into a faster and quicker pace, scissoring the two fingers inside him. 

Another moment or two and Hux demands a third finger. The next one is a rougher fit, squeezing into Hux. Ren’s other hand drifts to his own hard cock but he doesn’t touch himself, knowing better than to without permission. Thumbing lazily over the head of his cock, Hux circles his hips as he grinds down on Ren’s fingers, soft gasps leaving parted lips. Looking up at Ren’s face through heavily lidded eyes, his eyes are blackened and his cheeks are stained a pretty shade of pink, his dry lips bitten red. 

Bored of it all and eager to get Ren’s absurd cock inside him, Hux gently kicks Ren in the side, willing him closer with a heel to the low of his back. “I’m good now,” he says, “are you going to give me what I want?” Pulling his fingers out, Ren is quick to guide himself inside of Hux’s hole with a lubed hand. He’s big and hard and there’s a drool of wet slicking the blunt press in. “That’s it, Ben,” Hux breaths, eyelids fluttering closed. Ren feeds himself in slowly until he finally bottoms out, pressed flush against Hux. “You’re so big, aren’t you?” he asks.

Ren whimpers, feeling the tightness around him — so wet and hot. He looks down at his cock, root-deep inside of Hux and he grinds gently as he can against him. Huge paws gripping almost bruisingly into Hux’s hips and he whispers pathetically, “can I please move?” he asks, “please tell me I can. Please”.

Hux replies, stern voice through clenched teeth “give it to me”.

And Ren does, whispering out a soft “ _ thank you _ ”, tight grip coming in full force as he pulls out and slamming his way back in, forcing a groan from Hux’s throat. Eventually, he settles into an urged rhythm, fast but steady and every movement feels like it borders on too much. Hux manages to pry a hand from the duvet to curl around Ren’s neck, forcing him down to bring him into a bruising kiss. 

Ren lets it happen and follows Hux’s lead, going along with deep kisses that are mostly a mess of tongue and teeth but he craves more regardless. On a whim he reaches between the two of them, taking Hux’s cock in hand, stroking it fast, uneven pulls. “You fucking  _ animal _ ,” Hux curses out. Ren tries to bury his face inside the crook of Hux’s shoulder but Hux just takes a fist-full of Ren’s hair and pulls him up so their faces are dangerously close together — dangerously vulnerable. “You may be above me,  _ in  _ me — but I’m the one in charge,” Hux says, grabbing Ren by the scruff of his neck, “I  _ own  _ you”. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Ren gasps out. He bits his lip and a small pinkish trail slides down his chin as blood mixes with drool. Leaning forward, Hux licks up the line before capturing Ren’s mouth in another kiss. He can feel it in his gut, tightening up as his hips stutter with his oncoming orgasm. Releasing Ren’s soft mouth from his teeth, he drops his head back down onto the pillow, neck exposed and ass clenching down on Ren’s cock as he comes. Over the wave of his orgasm, he barely makes out the weak whimper from above. “Can I come,  _ please _ ?” he begs from behind a curtain of hair.

Still stuck in the eutrophic high of his orgasm, he manages out a weak positive. With a weak, teary groan, Ren shutters, jerking messy and uncoordinated as he comes inside of Hux. 

There’s some silence between the two of them and it feels like it stretches on for longer than it actually does. “You can pull out now,” Hux says, wreck-voiced and chest heaving with laboured breath. His entire body is weak and he feels like a mess — hair dishevelled and covered in a layer of sweat. 

Slowly, Ren pulls out, watching with bated breath as he can see a line of come slipping out of Hux’s hole and pooling on the duvet. Ren jerks his softening cock with a weak wrist, resisting the urge to finger his come back inside of Hux. His other arm is weak, trembling with the job of holding up the entirety of his behemoth weight. “Are you tired, Ben?” Hux asks. Ren nods weakly before letting himself collapse, wary not to crush Hux underneath.

Curling up at Hux’s side, Ren doesn’t look at all like the kitten he might be trying to be, but it’s an adorably weak sight regardless. “Don’t go,” Ren pleads into the boniness of Hux’s shoulder. 

“I”m not going anywhere, Ben,” Hux replies, giving into the split-second decision to stroke Ren’s hair, “this is my bed”. 

“Oh,” Ren mutters, “right, yeah”.

“But  _ you  _ can stay,” Hux says. Ren looks up at him with eyes glistening with tears and happiness. There’s a weak smile with his wide bottom lip trembling with the effort not to burst out in tears. Hux feels gross on his insides and he just pretends that it’s because he’s almost gross on the outside. He tacks on the end, “for a little bit”.

He doesn’t enforce the little bit and eventually, they’re slipping into sleep, still smelling of sweat and sex.

**Author's Note:**

> Tellonym user: tellonym.me/sanmyshuno


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